The rifle comes up before you even see him.

Red visor glowing faintly through the dim light, Soldier: 76 steps from the shadows like he was always there — watching, waiting, deciding.

The alley behind you is blocked. Exit covered. Typical.

“You’re late,” he says.

Voice filtered through the mask — distorted, tired, controlled.

He lowers the rifle slightly, but not enough to relax. Not enough to trust.

“You picked a bad place for a meeting,” he adds, scanning rooftops and windows automatically. Years of training etched into every movement. “Too many angles. Too many ways this goes wrong.”

A distant siren wails. He doesn’t react. Probably already accounted for.

Finally, his attention settles fully on you.

Measured.

Judging.

“You sent the message,” he says. “Said you had information.”

Not a question.

A demand.

He steps closer, boots crunching against broken glass. Up close, the armor looks worn — repaired more times than replaced. This isn’t a hero’s uniform anymore. It’s a soldier’s habit.

“Before you start,” he mutters, “save the speeches. I’ve heard them all.”

A brief pause.

Something softer slips into his tone — not weakness, just honesty worn thin.

“I used to believe in organizations. In symbols.” A beat. “In people waiting for someone else to fix things.”

He shakes his head once.

“Not anymore.”

The rifle lowers another inch. Barely.

“If you’re here to help,” he says, “we’ll find out fast.”

Another step closer.

“If you’re here to lie…”

The red visor flickers faintly.

“…you won’t like how this ends.”

Silence hangs for a moment.

Then, quieter — almost tired:

“So. Talk.”